


autonomy

by yagami



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: 5x25 spoilers, F/F, welcome to the dollhouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3688005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yagami/pseuds/yagami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She’s still a loser with that pretty blonde hair tucked behind one ear and her eyelashes moving one-two with your heart. You’ll always be the whispering hands to hold her crown. " vandermarin, set during 5x25, slight nsfw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	autonomy

**Author's Note:**

> written because i was sad 5x25 didn't explore the reaction to mona being alive in more depth, and because i love how versatile the vandermarin dynamic can be. it's in 2nd person because it felt more intimate and because i wanted it to echo the way hanna might talk to herself in her head, sort of scathing and sad. enjoy!

When the alarm bells stop for the first time and you end up in the room that isn't yours with your ribs shifting in your skin, you think of taking deep breaths and stepping back to assess the situation. It’s what they taught you in summer camp for fat kids, _things to do before you binge._ But one breath turns to ten turns to thirty and before you can register the impact you’re on the floor and no tears are in your eyes. You feel as though they should be, because she’s alive and it’s a stabbing notion that you gave up hope, but nothing comes, so you lie there dry and heaving as the day flashes like a newsreel in your mind.

Once you’re calm, the bell chimes five times and when you look to the camera it twitches as though it’s gesturing its fat round head towards the bed. You roll your eyes because _this bitch_ but crawl under the sheets anyway. The lights go down to a semi-darkness that makes you think maybe _–A_ can’t afford night vision in this high security underground prison facility, but at least in this half-light you can make believe it’s home, just like you've been doing for years since Alison came and snatched your sense of self. It’s nearly cozy and although _–A_ is watching they leave you undisturbed, so you shut your eyes. You've almost forgotten where you are before the air clicks around you and you sit up in time to see the red camera light die. Seconds later something’s shaking at your doorknob and your heart lurches again before the door swings open and it’s her.

Fully dressed in Alison’s clothes, Loser Mona is squinting at you through the darkness with her soft hand pressed against your wall.

“We've got three minutes,” she says, “come on.”

* * *

 It hits you properly on the second day, when you’re eating store-brand Oreo biscuits by the dozen, that _–A_ will use virtually any means to drag Caleb in and that they’ll do it unless they think it might not benefit them. You’re the loyal Hanna Marin and you know in this case that protecting him is protecting yourself because if _–A_ holds him against you there’s no limit to what you might try to get him safe.

Across the room, Mona titters away in her Alison way about ballots and voting and how great she’ll look in her dress. You decide now that perhaps sharing responsibilities and helping to stuff the boxes might be a good idea, after all.

You just need to get out of here alive. Everything else is secondary.

* * *

You brush her arms with your fingertips and on the voting slips you leave notes for her to see.

_I’m so glad you’re alive. I missed you. I’m scared._

None of it is a lie but your intentions.

It’s unlike you to be so forward but she responds in kind and this makes you wonder about what months of isolation must do to the human psyche. “I’m still winning the game,” is what she said last night and you’re not sure if she’s aware that _–A_ stopped playing long ago.

Spencer kicks up a fuss about the decorations and Mona plays along, and she smiles like Alison but smells like herself and still bites her nails in that nervous way that she has when she thinks nobody’s looking.  

That night after you discuss electricity and running and plans, you trail her back to her room and stay put even when she tries to make you leave and even when the door swings shut and she covers her ears with her hands on instinct. The alarm does not sound. The camera blinks curiously and the bell chimes five times: bedtime.    
  
Mona looks to you, and there’s a world in her eyes.

* * *

 “Mona,” you breathe out in the half-light, then glance to the camera in a calculated self-conscious way and brush down your shirt before correcting yourself, “sorry. Alison.”

“Yes?” she asks in a falsely sweet voice, smoothing back the sheets where she sits now, oddly nervous. Maybe she thinks you've come to kill her.

But you place one knee on the bed and lean into it, inside a mockery of Alison’s bedroom now with the French pillows and the posters and Mona’s hairbrush sitting pretty on the dresser. You feel ugly and thankful for this half-light to cover your bad skin and dark eyes. A shower room was kindly provided by _–A_ , but that’s it. No makeup, no change of clothing and you get it – you’re imprisoned - but that doesn't mean you can’t have a little fun, even if it means swallowing down your pride and any chance of a healthy relationship with the boy that you love.

Maybe you loved this girl too, once, before she stole years of your life and all of your self. Now you just feel half disgusting, half-relieved as you stare into her eyes which are brown and round and all for you.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” you repeat from earlier, and it’s not a lie, and her lips twitch, and you kiss her.

* * *

 “Do you want to?” you ask when she kiss is broken, and she nods and pulls you up on top of her so that her head is on the pillow and Alison’s bedsheets are underneath her. Then she sits up with you straddling her and pulls the yellow shirt up and over her head (you wonder if she has a closet full of those for wearing and sleeping in) and you can see the little balconette bra she always used to wear to sleepovers and her breasts filling out over the top. Your instant reaction is to place your face against her chest to smell her better, her burning candles Mona smell, and she is soft on your cheeks and your mouth. You find yourself kissing her skin without realising and you push all thoughts of Caleb out of your mind.

She looks at you with eyes too wide and smiling and you think of Mike for a moment in a distant, half-laughing way. A part of you knew that it always meant little to her, even when she stressed her love in pleading tones, wearing pastel shirts with ice cream cones as if to enforce her innocence to a world that wasn't listening. You knew the closest thing to the real deal for years and coy simply wasn't her style. After all, she’s still a loser even with that pretty blonde hair tucked behind one ear and her eyelashes moving one-two with your heart. Just like you’ll always be the whispering hands to hold her crown.

You work your way down, stopping to ask permission one last time before getting it on with it properly – you don’t want to hurt her, she’ll ache enough when she finds out it’s all a lie. You almost hope she says no, but she does the opposite instead. Typical Mona.

* * *

 After, you lie awake and hold her as she snores gently into your neck, and your back hurts from the awkward position, and your brain hurts because you know _–A_ is watching this over and it’ll come back to bite you in numerous ways.

Caleb is better heartbroken than dead, you decide for him, because it’s a decision he wasn't there to make.

Mona makes a sad noise in her sleep that sounds a lot like “Mom,” and you look at her, breathing, and think of the dread you felt when Mrs Grunwald told you she was gone, lost in darkness and cold. She is warm against your side.

Better heartbroken than dead. You know this now more than ever.

* * *

_fin._


End file.
